An ode to piano lessons

I would if I could, but I can’t, so I won’t.
I could’ve if I’d tried, but I didn’t so it’s done.
“You’ll regret it,” she said.
“Pssh, not in a million years,” I thought.

If we lived life backwards, would we know the value of things at the time instead of having to figure it out years later?

That excitement in the beginning…
The feel of the keys…
And then…
It’s work, it’s time. It’s mistakes and taking lots of breaks.
Will I ever learn all the notes?
The sun is shining, it’s a beautiful day, I want to play outside today.
Not here on this bench, where the notes make no sense.
“You know, if you practiced…”
“I DID!”

Is it worth the fight, moms everywhere wonder? When should I give? When should I push? Will she regret it?

Quitting. It seemed like a good idea at the time.
It was hard, it was tough.
I was never going to be good enough.
But you love music.
Doesn’t matter.

Because when you’re a kid, you’re stuck in the now and can’t see the future; all you know is how you’re bored to tears because you have no fears of any regrets. You dramatically proclaim that this is not your road to fame; your very life force is dashing away each time you’re forced to play. Until it’s clear, quitting is the only path here.

I’d play if I could, but I can’t, so I won’t.
I could’ve if I’d tried, but I didn’t so it’s done.
“You’ll regret it,” she told me.
“You’re right,” I’ve decided.